toe to and fro. Gianapolis, applying his handkerchief to his eyes, squinted at her furiously.
“Liar!” she repeated, and her voice had something of a soothing whisper. “I say to you, be so careful that you go not too far—with me! I do what I do, not because I am a poor fool”…
“It’s funny,” declared Gianapolis, an emotional catch in his voice—“it’s damn funny for you—for you—to adopt these airs with me! Why, you went to Olaf van”…
“Stop!” cried the girl furiously, and sprang at him panther-like, so that he fell back again in confusion, stumbled and collapsed upon a divan, with upraised, warding arms. “You Greek rat! you skinny Greek rat! Be careful what you think to say to me—to me! to me! Olaf van Noord—the poor, white-faced corpse-man! He is only one of Said’s mummies! Be careful what you think to say to me…Oh! be careful—be very careful! It is dangerous of any friend of—Mr. King”…
Gianapolis glanced at her furtively.
“It is dangerous of anyone in a house of—Mr. King to think to make attachments,”—she hissed the words beneath her breath—“outside of ourselves. Mr. King would not be glad to hear of it…I do not like to tell it to Mr. King”…
Gianapolis rose to his feet, unsteadily, and stretched out his arms in supplication.
“Mahâra!” he said, “don’t treat me like this!
